


Cheek to Cheek

by clgfanfic



Category: War of the Worlds (TV)
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 13:36:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul and Harrison share a shower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cheek to Cheek

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Business Associates #2 under the pen name Duval.

_"Come on, Paul, where's your sense of adventure?"_

 

          Paul stretched under the covers and yawned.  Twisting to torque his back, he heard the vertebrae pop as they settled in place and sighed with relief.  It was Blackwood's fault.  Everything.  It was always Blackwood's fault.  Tossing the covers back with a groan, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet hitting the floor with a thud, and sat up grumpily.

          The sight that greeted him was his nemesis, lounging bare-ass naked on the bed across from his in the small Motel 6 room, a smug, self-satisfied grin on his face.  A brief thought of homicide winged swiftly thought the soldier's mind.

          Normally he'd be wide awake by now, and more than a match for the harebrained scientist, but after dealing with aliens, driving for fourteen hours, and then enduring a small, uncomfortable hotel room with an amorous Harrison Blackwood, all he wanted to do was go back to bed and sleep for another week.     Ironhorse shook his head.  It was his fault.  He should've said no, or better yet, fallen asleep on the man.  It was six o'clock.  At the Cottage he'd have been up for an hour, his first run of the day already in, showered…

          A shower.  That's what he needed.  The peace, the quiet, the warm water working its magic…

          He forced his eyes open further.  Given the expression on Blackwood's face, Paul decided it was probably a damned good thing he'd pulled his underwear back on.  Little Red Riding Hood had his sympathy.

          Burning, gritty eyes settled on the scientist's groin and Ironhorse swallowed hard, wishing the scientist had done the same.  Grandfather, but he looks good even now…

          No.  I will not give in.  I'm not that easy.  The eyes fell shut again.  Three hours of sleep and the scientist was back to normal…

          Normal?

          Paul snorted.  Nothing about Blackwood was normal.  Normal people needed eight solid hours of blissful, peaceful, undisturbed sleep.

          Stop thinking about it and get moving, Mister, he commanded himself.

          "How long've you been lyin' there, starin' at me?" he grouched.

          Blackwood smiled broadly and chuckled softly.

          A morning person.  God, he hated morning people sometimes…

          "Oh, long enough to think of several ways I'd like to ravage your body."

          "No wonder I was having nightmares," Paul muttered as he stood and walked over to the chair where he'd deposited his travel duffel, his hips, knees, ankles and toes popping with each step.

          "You sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies, Colonel," Harrison teased.  "What nightmares?"

          "Something about Hansel and Gretel… only it was me… and you were the wicked witch."

          "Oh?"

          "You were wrapping me in gingerbread dough.  Said you were going to cook me and eat me."

          Blackwood's eyes widened slightly as he considered it.  "Hmm, sounds… appetizing.  I'll get you, my pretty," he cackled.

          Ironhorse's eyes narrowed.  "This is the last time I let you pick the accommodations, Blackwood.  The beds are lumpy, the place is swarming with mosquitoes, and the walls are thin.  Another two hours and we would've been at a government safe house with decent beds, no bugs, and no traffic noise."

          Harrison bounced out of bed, and Ironhorse ducked his head.  Damn the man anyway, he knew what movements like that did to him.  Blackwood was nothing but a cheap tease sometimes.

          "We didn't have two more hours in us – _any_ of us."  Blackwood scooped his toothbrush off the nightstand.  "Now, come on.  I already called Norton and Suzanne.  As soon as we're ready we all go grab some breakfast, refuel on coffee and hit the road.  How long before we're home?"

          "Five, maybe six more hours," the colonel said, digging through his small duffle bag and extricating what he needed.

          "That long?"

          Blackwood sounded disappointed.  Evidently he was serious about what had been occupying his thoughts.  That was okay.  He could just wait.  Served him right.

          Ironhorse stalked off to the bathroom, only to find Harrison following him.  "I'll be right out, Doctor."

          "I thought we'd share," Blackwood countered, too innocently.

          The black eyes fell to slits.  "I haven't had my first cup of coffee, mister.  Don't press your luck."

          "But I thought you liked taking showers with me."  The blue eyes were wide and boyish, the voice hurt.  "You said it woke you up."

          Ironhorse sighed.  "That's different."

          "Why, just because we're not at the Cottage?  Come on, Paul, where's your sense of adventure?"

          "Hibernating, until it gets another twelve hours of sleep."

          "Come on, Colonel," he cajoled.  "I'll wash your back…"

          There was no use arguing with Blackwood when he was in one of his Indiana Jones moods.  Better to give in, get it over with as quickly as possible, and get to the coffee before he did something that would land him in Leavenworth.

          "You win, Harrison," he sighed.

          Harrison beamed, reached in, and turned on the water.

          Ironhorse eyed the small stall skeptically.  It was awfully tiny for two grown men…  And who'd come up with that shape?  It looked like an aborted pentagon…  Probably some poor sap who had to sleep on these beds with the mosquitoes and the traffic…

          "Come, on, Colonel," Harrison said, stepping inside.  "I thought you were in a hurry.  Hmm, hot shower's just what you need.  Ahhh…"

          Tossing his underwear on the countertop, Paul grabbed the bottle of shampoo and stepped into the stall, pulling the door shut.  It immediately popped open.  He tugged it harder, the magnetic lock catching, then letting go with a _click_.

          "Damn it," he growled, jerking the door shut with a wall-rattling bang.  There.  No stupid shower door was going to stop him from getting out of this—

          He turned halfway to the beckoning warmth of the water, but found himself nose to nose with Harrison's shoulder.  "Do you mind, Blackwood?"

          Carefully the pair eased around each other like hippos on mud, exchanging places.  "Shit!" Ironhorse snapped as he slid under the shower head.  "That's hot!"

          "Hmm," Blackwood replied, tugging the shampoo bottle from Ironhorse's hand and squeezing out a dollop.  "I just love hot showers."  Balancing the bottle on the rim of the stall, he worked lather in his curls, flecks of foam drifting down and landing on Ironhorse like snowflakes.

          The colonel tried to ignore the fragrant precipitation, scooping up the so-called "bar" of soap and running it over his reddening skin.  He glanced up.  It wasn't even a stream of water, just an exaggerated mist.  After three swirls over his chest the tiny bar squirted out from under his hand.  He leaned forward to catch it, and buried his face in Harrison's wet midsection.

          "Ahhhhh," Blackwood moaned.  "I thought you were in a hurry, Paul."

          "I dropped the soap," he growled, straightening.  He could see the flake of white resting between the scientist's feet.  He pointed.  "Could you…?"

          Harrison glanced down.  "Not enough room," he announced.  "But I'm soapy enough for two, you could just rub up against me, and—"

          "Never mind," Ironhorse interrupted before the image solidified in his imagination.  Backing up further under the nozzle, he rinsed the meager suds off.

          "I need to borrow that," Harrison said, nodding at the misting nozzle.

          They slid around each other a second time, this time ending up back to back. "Where's the shampoo?" Paul asked as Harrison emerged his head.

          "Top," was the gurgled reply as Harrison maneuvered to direct the mist onto the tight curls clinging to his forehead.  He stepped back slightly as he did, his bare butt smacking against Paul's with a clap.  Ironhorse jerked forward, banging the fog-clouded glass, jarring the stall and tipping the shampoo off the rim.  The plastic bottle fell, bounced off the soldier's head, and dumped a handful of blue liquid before joining the soap on the tile.

          Blackwood blew bubbles in the water, then reached up and wiped his eyes.  "Using enough shampoo there, Colonel?"

          The colonel squeezed around, hip parrying with the scientist's for room.  Harrison grinned and turned back to the water before Ironhorse could strangle him. Reaching up, Paul worked the goo into an abundant lather, his elbows occasionally banging off the glass walls of the stall.  He glared at Blackwood while the astrophysicist cavorted under the steaming mist, enjoying himself.

          Harrison pressed his face up to the nozzle and launched into a chorus of _Figero_.

          "Damned crazy pain in the ass vegetarian tuning fork addicted—"

          Harrison wiggled his butt, brushing Paul's thigh.  The colonel swallowed the rest of his tirade, squeezing around so he wouldn't have to look at the inviting full moon.  The shampoo ran down his neck and back, sliding down the crack of his butt and… itching.  "Blackwood, goddamn it, I need to rinse!"

          "Figero, Figero, Figero!" Harrison chortled, scrubbing his armpits.

          "Now, mister!  Right now!"

          The scientist ignored him, launching into another round as he soaped those frontal parts Ironhorse was trying to ignore.

          "Figero, Figero, Figero," he sung, grinding his butt against Paul's, the shampoo making it easy.

          The soldier sucked forward, trying to escape the groping buttocks, his face and belly pressing up against the glass.  It was considerably colder than the near-boiling spray.  Too cold.  He pushed back, mashing the teasing glutes with a demanding pressure.

          "Figero!  Figero!  Figero— Ooh, oh, oh, _Figero!_ " the astrophysicist crescendoed.  "Oohhh!"

          "If you don't get out of the way I'll Figero you, mister!"

          The curly head swiveled, and with an innocent, owlish blink of his eyes, Blackwood smiled over his shoulder and asked, "Want to rinse, Colonel?  You look like Frosty the Snowman around noon."

          Ironhorse ground his teeth together, sucked in a deep breath through flared nostrils and silently counted to a hundred by fives.  He maneuvered around Blackwood, kicking the half-emptied bottle of shampoo out of his way and being careful not to touch the raving lunatic.

          Reaching the nozzle, Ironhorse closed his eyes, letting the mist slowly dissolve the shampoo out of his hair and wash it away.  That done, he turned, wiping along his chest to remove the last traces of foam.

          His eyes closed, but popped open again when Harrison took a step backward, pressing up against him again.  "Hurry up, Paul, the water's getting cold."

          "Well, get out then," he snapped.  "I like it cold."

          Harrison reached out and pushed against the door.  It didn't budge.  He tried again.  "I can't get it open.  What did you do to it?"

          "What?  I didn't do anything to it!"

          The water abruptly turned icy.  "Ahh!  Damn it!"  He turned, groping for the controls.  It shifted back to near-steam.  "Christ!  What're you doing, Blackwood?!"

          "Me?  I'm just trying to get it open!  Turn it off!"

          Alternating hot and cold cheeks slid over each other as the two men fought with the door and the faucet.  Ironhorse figured out his objective first, slamming off the now freezing spray.

          Harrison pounded on the door, to no avail.

          Squeezing past him, Paul delivered a quick underhand blow with the ball of his hand, popping the door open.  Both men took a step forward, wedging each other in the doorway.

          "Blackwood!"

          "Yes!"

          "Move, mister!"

          "I'm moving, I'm moving!  The colonel a little grumpy this morning?"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse led the way next door, and knocked sharply.  Blackwood sauntered along behind, humming _Figero_ under his breath, a cheery smile plastered on his face.

          When no one answered the door, Paul gripped the knob and turned.  The door opened and the two men entered another room identical to their own.  Suzanne was collapsed on the bed, wiping tears from her eyes.  Norton sat next to her in Gertrude, several wadded up pieces of Kleenex in his lap.

          Norton smiled broadly, wiping more moisture from his eyes.  "Enjoy the dance, big guy?"

          "Dance?" Ironhorse asked, wishing he'd brought the Geiger counter.

          "Yeah, sounded like you and Harrison were, ah… cheek to cheek in there."

          Suzanne sucked in a breath and snorted, her sides shaking.

          Ironhorse felt his ears singe as they burned with embarrassment.

          "Figero, Figero, Figero!" Norton sang, one hand on his heart, the other flung wide.

          "Oh, oh, _oohhhh!_ " Suzanne managed before the pair broke into wails of unrestrained laughter.

          Ironhorse spun, glaring murder at Blackwood.  The scientist shrugged.  "Thin walls."  He wagged his eyebrows lecherously.  "Can I have the next dance?"


End file.
